


we all have organs, we all get sick

by idaate



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, Virtual Reality, vr au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: “Aaand that was a lie, obviously,” says Ouma, picking up both his clean bowl and Momota’s untouched one to the latter’s protests. “Silly, silly sick Momo-chan. Cooome on. It’s bedtime for you. If you’re good, maybe I’ll even read you a bedtime story, hm? And you can start racking up brownie points by wiping that huuuge drip of gross snot coming down your face.”-Momota gets sick. Ouma takes care of him. They're not like a married couple in the slightest.





	we all have organs, we all get sick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grayimperia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/gifts).



Perhaps Momota has a bit of a problem when it comes to admitting things like being sick.

It was an issue in the killing game, holding him back from training with Saihara and Harukawa while he coughed his guts out in the bathroom sinks. It took Ouma hitting him across the face for the secret to come, quite literally, spilling out of him, blood dribbling down his chin like a fountain and everyone watching as it just didn’t stop.

Thus, Momota supposed, it would only be fair for Ouma to force the truth out of him when they weren’t in a killing game as well.

“Momo-chan ish shick,” declares Ouma around a mouthful of rice from across the table, all matter-of-factly like he’s winning an argument.

“No ’m not,” says Momota, sounding awfully congested and awfully sick.

Ouma swallows his rice down and gestures pointedly with his spoon. “Oh yeah? If that’s the case, how come you didn’t notice me stealing food from you?”

Momota’s eyes narrow. God, was he really that out of it? “I noticed,” he mutters. “Just chose not to say anythin’.”

“Aaand that was a lie, obviously,” says Ouma, picking up both his clean bowl and Momota’s untouched one to the latter’s protests. “Silly, silly sick Momo-chan. Cooome on. It’s bedtime for you. If you’re good, maybe I’ll even read you a bedtime story, hm? And you can start racking up brownie points by wiping that huuuge drip of gross snot coming down your face.”

Momota wipes at his nose hurriedly only for Ouma to sing-song “Yet another lie!” and resigns himself to the fact that he’s far too tired to continue another one of his usual needless “quarrels for the sake of fighting” with Ouma. Instead, he lets the smaller boy grab him by the waist when he nearly walks into a wall on his way to his room, muttering “Woah, you’re really burning up big guy,” when he feels Momota’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” is Momota’s only rather lame response, and Ouma laughs in his face as he tucks Momota into bed (did they get to his room so quickly?).

“I’ll be sure to douse myself in water, then,” hums Ouma, and maybe he gives Momota a kiss or maybe he’s just really, really out of it, but despite the difficulty he has breathing out of his nose, Momota finds it all too hard to keep himself conscious.

“Count sheep,” says Ouma from somewhere far away, but Momota can’t even get to the third one.

 

-

 

Cats like to be alone and hide when they’re sick or dying. Momota knows this because it took him almost two weeks to find the body of his cat from before he auditioned, curled in on herself in the rafters of his grandparents’ house. She’d gone and hidden herself so well that Momota couldn’t get the smell of her body out of his mind for weeks after the fact.

When Ouma had gone and gotten himself sick, it’d been something to that effect. 

Scientists didn’t know why cats tried to hide themselves, and Momota didn’t really know why Ouma tried to hide himself either. But one way or another, it had resulted in a call from Team  _ Danganronpa  _ with some intern on the phone muttering that oh, uhm, so sorry to bother you Momota-san but, er— you see, Ouma-san? He’s in the hospital and so, uhm, we keep stuff about the participants’ personal lives hidden from the general public but you’re not the general public and also you live with him so we thought you’d like to know, since we didn’t think you had already. Sorry for bothering you, have a good nigh— oh, yes, he’s at this and this address? Yes, thank you, have a good night, Momota-san.

That  _ bastard. _

Momota’d long shed his iconic look from the killing game, purple color that he thought would never get rid of itself fading to some sort of almost-black brown and goatee replaced with an uneven stubble. But despite all this, all it took was a fumble of an id and the nurses were ushering him down too-sterile aisles to Ouma’s room.

“He’s fine, really, he’s just. Very weak,” says one of the nurses with a smile that threatens to splinter into an ‘oh gosh I’m in the presence of a celebrity’ expression. “Yes, he’s very weak. Nothing life threatening, of course, but he’s still been put on some antibiotics and such. He’ll be staying here for the night, but whenever you want to leave tomorrow, he’ll be discharged.”

A few thank yous and promises that he’ll call if anything’s the matter and then Momota’s alone with Ouma.

He’s small and pale, but not as small or pale as that one time where Momota helped to kill him. Nonetheless, it’s still eerily similar, and Momota has to look away from Ouma’s sweaty face and lips twisting in discomfort to keep himself from standing up and walking right out of the room. 

Sure, he hadn’t heard from Ouma for a day or two, but that wasn’t anything new. If he freaked out and phoned in a missing person every time Ouma decided to jump from the nest and go on some escapade before appearing at home without comment a day or two later, he’d rack up quite a reputation beyond “participant of that one killing game” with the local law enforcement.

Was it better to cry wolf too many times or not at all? Either way, Momota was sure he’d be stuck in the same position he was now, and there’s no use dwelling on the past anyhow when it can’t change a thing.

Ouma stirs and Momota sits up from his brooding, watching as Ouma’s lashes slowly unstick. Hazy eyes peer blearily through, expression the same as if he’d been hit by a poisoned arrow or something, before focusing in on Momota. Instantly, his expression falls, lips quirking down.

“So I’m in hell,” Ouma rasps, closing his eyes again. Momota snorts as Ouma continues, “Clearly I’ve been stuck in a room with the most hideous creature of all time as punishment for my hubris. Just my luck.”

“Like you haven’t voluntarily chosen to live with this sexy beast for the past few months,” Momota harumphs, and Ouma’s expression twists more.

“It was a trial for myself.”

“A trial, huh.”

“A mental endeavor I undertook to see how long I could withstand the flames of your utter hideousness searing my eyes. As it turns out, my fortitude is better than even I thought. But now I am resting and recovering from the trauma you threw upon me. And  _ so,”  _ Ouma’s brow furrows and he pulls the covers in on himself further, eyes still screwed shut, “please leave.”

Momota flat out laughs at that. “No.”

“Perish.”

“Alright, Ouma ‘Murderphobia’ Kokichi.”

“I can break some vows if the situation truly calls for it,” Ouma tries to singsong it but it all just comes out in a terrible flat rasp. He groans and makes a finger gun motion at what Momota assumes is supposed to be his direction but misses by a mile. “Pleeease leave.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely... no.” 

Ouma turns and groans into his pillow. “I hate you.”

“Mhm.” Momota leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and mentally weighing how dangerous it is to poke the bear with a stick before  _ ah, fuck it.  _ “Why did you run away when you got sick?”

Ouma’s rabbit-limbs stiffen a bit, face still buried in his pillow. “I don’t need Momo-chan breathing down my neck and spoon feeding me soup like an infant.”

“Huh.”

Deeper into the pillow. “...can handle m’self.”

“Ah. Alright.” Momota leans forward, threading his fingers between one another. “So. This? Is handling yourself?”

Silence.

Momota breathes carefully. “Listen. I get you’re kind of—you kind of do things at your own pace. And I respect that. I get not wanting people to see you…” (weak?) “...when you’re sick or hurt or something. But sometimes there are  _ limits,  _ Ouma, and—”

“Says the guy who choked on his own blood and kept it a secret.”

Momota works his jaw. “Yeah, well. Take this as a word of caution from someone who knows better now.” 

There’s a little bark of laughter, there, hoarse and rough to the ears. “Ah, Momo-chan, like things would be different if you lived it again now, hm?” Ouma turns a little, getting his face out of the pillow and peering over his shoulder. “Of course they would be.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying that so mockingly. They would be,” says Momota, and for once, he says that with true, firm confidence.

“Mm, alright.” 

“Hey, Ouma,” Momota’s eyes narrow, trying to keep himself calm. “You could show some appreciation. It’d be nice, even.  _ Kind.” _

“Kind?” Ouma scoffs. “Anyhow, I think I can take a hard pass on the appreciation bit.”

“Oh yeah?” Momota leans forward. “And why’s that?”

“Well, you haven’t done anything that needs my appreciation.” Ouma eyes Momota up and down. “...no matter what you seem to have in your head.” 

“For my showing up here!” Momota feels like throwing his hands in the air before wait, no— that might be a little too much. “Thanking me can be the start of your apology for. Whatever the hell this ordeal was.”  _ For getting me worried. _

“I mean,” Ouma rolls his eyes overdramatically, “it’s not what  _ I  _ would do. Or the sort of advice I’d offer to really anyone, for that matter. Or maybe I would, to, you know, see how they get a little bit screwed over and have some chuckles of my own over it all—”

“So I’m not like you, and maybe that’s good,” Momota cuts him off. The silence between them is too awkward to bear in that instant, then, because maybe Momota should’ve just stuck to his usual hero lines, and he clears his throat quickly before saying, “why do you care so much, even?”

“Uhhh you know,” says Ouma, eyes darting off. “Because Momota-chan is, erhm,” his voice turns sickly sweet, “my  _ dear, dear  _ friend, and someone who I’d only ever want the very best for and I won’t let you pass up on this opportunity and stuff.”

“Listen, Ouma.” Momota places his hands on his knees. “That wasn’t a good lie. Not even a confident one. And, like, you tell shitty lines from time to time, yeah, but coupled with the fact that you’re in the hospital right now, I think you’re obligated by law or whatever to, just, tell me the tr—“

Suddenly Ouma’s pushing himself up from his bed and into Momota, reaching out with his hands towards—

(his neck?)

—and so, obviously, Momota jumps to the side, the same way Ouma had slipped out of his grasp and let Momota cough his lungs out in that one simulation they were a part of. He doesn’t hit him, but Ouma still ends up on the ground, his legs tangled up in the bedsheets and on his mattress while his torso and face hug the floor. 

And unlike Ouma back then, Momota leans down and picks him up, picks him up  _ gently,  _ checking to make sure his IV didn’t rip (miraculously, it didn’t) and that he’s alright and “Jesus, Ouma, your nose is bleeding,” and God he’s so, so hot to the touch, what the hell did this kid contract.

Ouma looks up at Momota with wide doll eyes before reaching up to touch his nose with small fingers. He looks down and, sure enough, the blood he finds there is that awful shiny red, unedited and raw unlike the pink that was squeezed out of him on live tv. 

“Oh, you thought I was going to kill you,” he says airily, wiping his fingers on his hospital slacks and already tucking himself back into bed.

“I—“ Momota sputters, and Ouma closes his eyes, nose still gushing. “Ouma?!”

“So much for me being murderphobic,” he mutters.

Ouma’s always a handful, but the state he’s in right now can’t be fixed with a bag of heroic words that Momota has on the typical call, and so he presses the button to call a nurse over instead.

 

-

 

Momota wakes up to the noise of the fan thrumming over his head, a noise that pounds into his skull and makes him feel like he’s going to lose it.

He doesn’t, of course, because he’s tired and doesn’t feel like getting out of bed, but there’s still the begrudging feeling of “I  _ could  _ if I wanted,” and he mutters to himself and pulls himself up.

Or rather, he tries to, because he realizes with a start that there’s an Ouma laying across his legs, hair sticking out in various directions and breath coming out in little puffs. Momota would have thought it cute if his eyes weren’t stuck open and staring right at him.

_ “Jesus,  _ Ouma—” he swears, holding his hand to his chest as he waits for the world to stop rushing and pounding. Ouma simply giggles and sits up, leaning over and giving Momota a little flick on the nose.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he sings. “Or should I say good afternoon? You slept aalll through the night and then aaaalll through the day. And you went to bed early! Wowzers!”

“That long, huh,” Momota says, checking his mental calendar to see if he had any important events planned for today. Thankfully, Iruma had cancelled on their plans to get bubble tea together last minute anyway, so he wasn’t missing anything. “Yeah. Wowzers. Hey, uh, why were you sleeping on me?”

“Oh, well,” Ouma straightens himself up and hits Momota with the sort of billion yen smile that lets him know Ouma’s about to say something horrible, “you were muttering my name in your sleep, so I assumed that you wanted to sleep with me.”

Momota sputters awake and Ouma adds cheerily, “Of course, I would never do something so indecent as share a bed with someone who’s as sick as you, so I left myself to simply napping on top of the sheets and—”

“Do you ever,” Momota interrupts before pausing to take in a warbling breath. “Do you.  _ Ever.  _ Even fucking once. Think before you speak?”

“Yep!” Ouma says it in English and pops the p. “I thought about how I assumed your subconscious wanted to sleep with me, and then I said it out loud with my mouth. My mouth noises.” He pops his lips again. “I think about absolutely everything I say before I say it, dear Momo-chan. I think it would prove to benefit you if you did the same, actually!” 

Momota pinches his nose and breathes. “You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m Ouma!”

Momota can’t tell if the headache he feels coming on is from his sickness or Ouma’s peals of laughter, but either way he lets himself sink back into the soft mattress of his bed, giving up on trying to get himself back up and at ‘em. “I know it’s noon, but what time is it, exactly?”

“Time for you to get a watch! Aaand also two o’ clock-ish,” Ouma clicks his tongue before Momota can strangle him (like he’d ever dare rest his hands on ouma’s neck after what happened in there, how could he even joke about that) and bounces off the bed, spinning around like a pinwheel to face Momota. “But you need your beauty sleep, and so if you decide to sleep longer, I will neither argue with you nor attempt to wake you up till you’re ready, my sweet.”

And once again, the way Ouma speaks is a touch too sugary for Momota to feel like it’s genuine, but it feels far less tiresome to simply take him at his word than to try and argue with him about it, and so he leans back and lets his eyes shut close.

 

-

 

They almost dated, once.

Or perhaps phrasing it like that puts a bit too much worth on what actually happened. Because, well, all that happened was Ouma getting a little too close to Momota as he drove them home from the hospital. He had looked up at Momota with his usual big, glassy doll eyes and asked, “Momo-chan, do you love me?”

The car had swerved a bit there and Momota coughed. “That,” he said, “was out of nowhere.”

“You’re out of nowhere.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“And  _ you’re  _ avoiding the question.” Ouma leaned closer. “Do you have feelings for me, Momota-chan?”

“I sure have feelings for you, but I dunno if you’d accurately describe them as romantic ones or whatever.” Momota’s hands tightened a bit on the wheel. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I love Momota-chan,” said Ouma plainly.

Momota waited for a moment, for the inevitable “But that’s a lie, of course” that comes trailing after every one of Ouma’s ridiculous confessions of love, but it didn’t come this time.

Instead, there was just an intensely awkward silence as Momota stared straight ahead at the road before glancing to look at Ouma. His eyes were shut and his legs swung idly in the small space in front of his seat.

“I,” Momota swallowed and looked back up at the road again, “was that serious?”

“Of course,” said Ouma, “would I ever lie to you?”

“Yeah, never ever,” Momota said. “Just, be straight with me? For once.”

“I’m just  _ saying,”  _ Ouma huffed, cheeks puffed out in some sort of indignance that Momota hadn’t fully understood, “that dating me would come with an assortment of benefits.”

The singsong tone that crept into Ouma’s voice once again made Momota’s shoulders relax a bit. So it was a joke. That, he could wrap his head around. “Mhmm? Like what?”

“I’m an incredible cook.”

“The one time you tried to microwave instant ramen, it caught on fire.”

“We can make it a publicity stunt and gain attention from the media in order to gain fame and fortune.”

“We’re already kinda rich, and you despise being recognized in public.”

“I’m eye candy.”

“Keep telling yourself that, and we live together anyways.”

Ouma shifted in his seat. “I’m a great f—“

“Aaand I will stop you right there.”

Ouma giggled, and the conversation had faded into silence, another one of numerous and pointlessly entertaining conversations they’d had that faded into obscurity the moment they ended, and for all rights and purposes, Momota thought that was the end of it.

“Because maybe Momo-chan loves me too,” sighed Ouma as they had pulled into their driveway, “so maybe that means that we can have a happy relationship.”

Momota turned to answer, but Ouma had already yanked his seatbelt off and drifted out of the car.

And now, sitting with eyes struggling to stay open and Ouma’s blurry form spoon feeding him broth he made himself (“it’s laced with arsenic,” he had hummed before sticking it right in momota’s mouth) in the house they live in together, Momota thinks, what exactly would have changed if they had actually started dating? 

Perhaps not much at all, in physicality. They had their own rooms, yes, but they slept together more often than not, waking up with sheets tangled amid limbs and somehow far closer together than they had been when they had fallen asleep. 

In fact, maybe they had skipped the dating stage altogether and gone straight to “married couple living domestically”. 

The thought makes Momota sputter around his spoon, and Ouma gasps before clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Now now, Momo-chan,” he scolds, “you gotta eat your vitamins! Now, look out! Here comes the train! Choo, choo!”

There’s nothing about this situation that  _ doesn’t  _ scream married couple, right? Right?

Well, save for the fact that they’re not married, nor are they any sort of couple save for “a couple of sad traumatized once-classmates”. Not a romantic couple. If they were a romantic couple, it could eventually segue into marriage given time.

But they’re not a romantic couple for the simple reason that, whether or not Ouma debatedly loved him, Momota didn’t love him back, and there’s nothing fulfilling for either side in a relationship where one of them doesn’t really want to be in it.

And Momota doesn’t, couldn’t love Ouma because…

Because…

“...oh, shit,” mutters Momota, hand flying to his mouth.

Ouma flicks the contents of the train-spoon over Momota’s face, making him sputter all over again. “Watch your fucking language!”

 

-

 

Momota once heard that people needed a reason for falling in love.

It was an off-note sort of a thing, from before he had become the Super High-School Level Astronaut. In fact, it had been from an interview from the writers of the 43rd season when he was researching on the best ways to get in and earn his fortune.

Another tragic love story, a rehash of this season’s swordswoman who had died to protect a rockstar. When questioned about it, the writer in charge had laughed and said, “I tried to make the reason they fell in love somewhat ambiguous. Of course, there’s a reason, as there always should be, but I think the viewers can decide themselves what that reason is.”

Even that version of Momota Kaito, who knew nothing about love except for love of money, had snorted a little and quirked an eyebrow before fast-forwarding the CD. Make it needlessly deep if they wanted to, love was what it was, right? 

And yet, struck with the horrid realization that he could have fallen in love with the person known as Ouma Kokichi, Momota finds himself struggling and scraping for a reason.

_ Because he was cute?  _ ...well, whether or not he wanted to admit it, that wouldn’t be an incorrect statement, would it? Much of his initial popularity before the season’s release had come from  _ those  _ sorts of fans fawning over his pretty-boy looks. In fact, they had been quick to place him with the other pretty boys of the class, Amami and Saihara and, at times, Kiibo. 

_ Because of his personality?  _ Maybe that was being a bit too generous. It wasn’t as if Momota enjoyed being the constant butt of Ouma’s jokes - he’d be a masochist otherwise - but it’s not as if it was a one sided thing. He liked to think they played off of each other, even, the way flint and steel created a spark to start a fire. (a spark of love…? that was a bit fucking cliche, even for him.)

_ Financial gain?  _ Maybe another Momota would have a motive like that, but this Momota didn’t have to live wondering when his next meal would be, and that was really all he needed, if he was being honest with himself. But whether or not that was what he  _ needed,  _ he was sitting on more coin than he was terribly comfortable with after the season had ended. 

_ Because? _

_ Because he just liked Ouma? _

Ouma had left the room for one reason or another, and Momota sat alone rubbing his chin and scrunching his forehead. Well, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had to like Ouma to  _ some  _ extent if he had lived with him for so long. 

And wasn’t it shitty of him to try and justify his feelings to himself, anyhow? Certainly, it had to be. It’s not as if he wouldn’t try to justify it regardless of who he found himself falling for (for shuuichi and harumaki, every hero loved their sidekick, didn’t they?) but that didn’t make it any less unfair. 

Perhaps it was simply the concept of “being in love” that was unappealing to him.

He had shirked Harumaki’s confession, both inside the killing game and out of it, hurrying into his execution and out of his hospital bed as soon as she had appeared, fumbling with her hair and muttering how she, well, she never felt this way for someone before—

So, then, the issue was with him. 

Or, well, some of it had to be Ouma’s fault too. And that wasn’t just Momota skirting blame, it was the plain fact that Ouma was, well, Ouma. 

...but, most of it was with him.

 

-

 

The question stares back up at him almost innocently, text printed in that tiny font that doctors seemed to be all too fond of even though, you know, you would think that they’d make it easier to ingest so that you could find out whatever the hell was wrong with you.

_ Desired roommate? Pick up to three. _

Then a string of checkboxes, one for every other member of the fifty-third season. It’s pretty formulaic, and if he really doesn’t have any sort of inclination, he can check the ‘random’ box that’s tacked there on the end, too.

“So you’re picking me, right?”

Despite the frequency of Ouma’s jumpscares, Momota never fails to startle as Ouma’s chin is suddenly resting on his shoulder. Ouma laughs and taps the kanji for his own name, humming. “Caught you in the act, huh? If it’s too hawd fow you to wift youw penciw, I can do it for you!”

Momota scoffs for a moment, before pausing. He had considered checking off Saihara, checking off Harukawa, but something there felt...wrong. Even though he technically hadn’t been ‘dead’ for more than a day or so, there had been a certain divide there, a certain sort of guilt that the two had looked at him with even though  _ I’m the one who should feel guilty, here. _

He could always change his mind, couldn’t he? They couldn’t  _ force  _ him to stay with his roommate.

“You know what? Alright,” says Momota as he checks off one of the boxes. “I’ll be your roommate.”

“Ehh, really?” Ouma pulls away from Momota’s chin and brings his hands to his face, and his eyes practically sparkle. “No way!”

“Yes way,” Momota says tiredly. “Hey, didn’t you just say that you expected me to be writing you in as a roommate right now?”

“Did I?” Ouma taps his chin. “Can’t recall.”

“Huh.”

“Anywaaaayy,” Ouma jumps away from Momota and strolls towards the door, arms straight out on either side, “I’ll go request to  _ not  _ be put with you, then!”

(of course, he didn’t.)

 

-

 

Everything is impulsive with Momota, so it makes sense that a kiss would be, too.

It’s supposed to be romantic, like in a light novel - when Ouma leans in a little closer, Momota lunges and it’s all cool and stuff and they don’t need to even outright confess their feelings, they simply instinctively  _ know,  _ or however the painfully purple prose would go. Awkward tension might be there, sure, but in the end it’s all forgotten in the throes of passion because love is magic and whatever. Being sick is only a benefit, really, a trope that only would serve itself to become a moment that the couple in question would treasure years after the fact. 

But unlike in a light novel, being sick actually has painful detriments. 

It’s meant to be a graceful sort of thing, where the grasp is firm but tender and loving and sure. But instead his fingers are slow, weak in the sort of way that one’s body gets when it’s not at a hundred percent, and as Ouma leans in with another spoonful of liquid or whatever he wanted to put in Momota’s mouth he hit it away and turned 

Momota falls face first on the floor and Ouma says, “tsk tsk, trying to get me sick, Momota-chan? If you continue pulling petty stuff like that, I’m not gonna wanna take care of you, alright? You’re gonna give me rabies and that’s very, very bad.”

For some reason, he has deja vu. In fact, it slaps him so hard that he lays there on the floor for a moment and Ouma nudges him with a foot and says, “Momota-chan? Have you kicked the bucket? ...after I poured all that work into making you soup n’ stuff, you just go and die on me, huh…”

Didn’t something like this happen before?

Momota’s eyes narrow and he thinks about that, you know, that one time. That one time Ouma had also lunged at him while he was sick. 

Ouma slaps his ass. “You’ve been, like, unmoving for too many seconds to be normal,” he mutters. “Did you really die, just now? Giddyup.”

“Hey, Ouma,” says Momota, tilting his head to the side, “you were trying to kiss me that one time in the hospital, right?”

To Ouma’s credit, the little intake of breath he has only lasts a second or two. “Yep!” he says. “Congratulations, Momota-chan, you’ve solved my kissing puzzle, nyeh heh heh. The prize is: you get early access to my ASMR reading of—“

“Cause, like, I was trying to kiss you just then, right now, so.” Momota smacks his lips as best he can when half his face is pressed up against the floor. “Uh. I get it, now.”

“You get what, now? Ehh, don’t act like you’re anywhere close enough to my level of intelligence that we can share the same experiences or anything.”

“Jesus Christ,  _ Ouma,  _ deflecting does not suit you.” Momota groans and finally pushes himself off of the ground. “If you’re going to be so, well,  _ you  _ about it, then I’ll say it in a way you can’t beat the bush around with, alright?” He breathes through his teeth. “I. Like you. Romantically. In an ‘I want to date you’ sort of a way. In a—” he gets swept up in the moment and maybe this is the shoujo light novel feel he’s going for, “—in an ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you and get married to you someday’ sort of a way.”

Another little beat of silence. God, it was—  _ God,  _ it was horrible of him to think it, but catching Ouma off guard did always bring with it a certain ring of satisfaction that he couldn’t deny.

If only it didn’t make his own face burn, that’d be pretty cool too. At least he has the excuse of being sick.

 

**Author's Note:**

> my debts: paid off
> 
> haha but seriously, its very fun writing for you gray ! thank you for giving me the opportunity to take so many liberties with the good boys
> 
> and also, first fic of the new year, yay!


End file.
